The tale begins with a moment of divine displeasure. Nandi, the devoted attendant of Śiva, was cursed: “Go swiftly to the earthly realm!” The weight of this command pressed heavily upon Nandi’s heart; his sighs were deep, his spirit dejected, and sorrow clouded his eyes. He had been misled, deceived by Agni and especially by Vāsava, and now found himself in this pitiable state. As Nandi descended to the earthly plane, the guardians of the world beheld him in his altered condition. Nandin, among them, recounted all that had transpired, laying bare the events before the assembled deities. Hearing these words, Nandi was overcome; his hair stood on end as he worshipped with reverence, adopting the austere form of a Kapālika. Then, beloved, a wondrous event occurred: from the liṅga arose a bodiless voice, responding to Nandin’s worship, which was offered with deep devotion. From that moment, Nandin, the lord of the doorkeepers, was elevated—he became the lord of lords, his power extending to grant the most desired fruits to all worlds. It was proclaimed that those who worship Śiva, the lord of the doorkeepers, with devotion, would have the sins of seven births—whether great or small—removed. Whoever remembers Śiva in their mind, the lord of the doorkeepers, is freed from such burdens. The Lord himself declared: “By merely seeing him, one does not attain a birth among animals.” In those days, there was a king named Kauśika, who, due to his karma, was always reborn as a rooster. By his presence, the earth was pervaded, along with its mountains, forests, and groves. His wife, renowned as Viśālā, belonged to him, and together they ruled the kingdom. Yet, O Pārvatī, there was never any intimacy between them. As time passed, the queen, tormented by longing, witnessed a pair of insects engaged in a quarrel of love. The male insect repeatedly sought to please his beloved, imploring, “Embrace me as you wish, for I am afflicted by the arrows of love. Nowhere in the world is there a passionate woman equal to you. Why, when I am wretched, do you, who speak kindly, seem angry with me?” Provoked, the female insect rebuked him: “Why do you speak to me in vain? Given over to another by your lust, you wretched insect!” She refused him, but the insect pleaded again and again, until finally she was appeased. Witnessing this marvel, the queen lamented, “I am not desired by my beloved; I will die, there is no doubt.” She sighed and grieved in many ways. In her distress, she saw a sage seated nearby, born of austerity and firm in his vows. Approaching him, she said, “O Brāhmaṇa, this one doubt turns in my heart: I do not know the reason, but union does not arise. He who conquered the realm of women and defeated all in battle before, now does not desire them—O virtuous one, what is this? Horses, elephants, and endless wealth and grain—by what result of karma is my youth so firm as this? It is seen during the day, but at night it is not seen. O Brahmin, you ought to speak to me about the avoidance of evil deeds.” The sage replied gently, “Listen, my daughter, to what happened long ago, done out of childishness. Your husband is certainly the son of Viduratha. By him, the prince, many chickens were eaten. Thus, as he kept eating, many years passed. When asked why the chickens no longer come here, there was no answer. Then someone said that the chickens had been eaten; all the chickens were devoured by the king without any reason. Then Tāmracūḍa, enraged, pronounced a curse upon the evil-minded one.” Thus unfolds the story, revealing the consequences of karma, the power of devotion, and the mysterious workings of fate.